Quantum Of Solace

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I saw Quantum Of Solace last night, and I have to say it was a mixed bag. Nowhere near as excellent as its predecessor Casino Royale, Quantum drops the ball big time with its insistence on re-introducing preposterous action sequences. Seriously though--Quantum's topical storyline and well-realized villain (played with creepy cool style by newcomer Mathieu Amalric) way too often take a back seat to ridiculously staged action sequences trying to please that demographic which demanded that sort of thing (I guess) in their Bond movies. Bad move. Whereas Casino Royale was executed with cool finesse and realism (for the most part), I found Quantum Of Solace to regress too quickly back to our old expectations of what a Bond movie should be, and in so doing, it completely derailed the direction in which this re-booted franchise was heading.

I can only hope now that the producers of the new Bond franchise scale back the preposterous-action idiocy for the 3rd entry. Yet all is not lost in Quantum Of Solace. It does have its merits. Either see it for matinee price, or save it for the dollar theater, or home viewing. Daniel Craig still maintains his role very nicely. Judy Dench as M is perfect. Their relationship is at the heart of this movie, and I consider Quantum Of Solace a "side stop" on the newly re-booted Bond franchise. It sets a certain foundation--a second layer after Casino Royale, if you will--for Bond's position in the MI6. Aside from establishing his position relative to M in the British Secret Intelligence Service, Quantum Of Solace does not offer much else in terms of originality for the series, with the notable exception of the villain Dominic Greene and his association with the criminal organisation Quantum. His ploy to secure control of Bolivia's water supply is pretty topical, and one of the elements that salvages the movie from complete mediocrity.

To be clear on my feelings about this movie--like I said at the beginning of this review, they are mixed--I would rate Quantum Of Solace at least 6.5 out of 10 stars, leaning generously towards 7 but feeling that it did not live up to the hype established clearly by Casino Royale (which I would give a 9 out of 10 without thinking about it).

So there you have it. Daniel Craig works overtime in Quantum Of Solace to desperately hang on to whatever credibility he garnered in Casino Royale, and he is very good at it. Given that Craig's Bond is a hard man who is learning the subtleties that perforce come with the job, I grant Quantum Of Solace a "pass" and have my fingers crossed tighter than ever that the producers of these new Bond flicks get their act together for the third outing. Keep the action realistic, please. There's plenty of time to re-introduce the classic characteristics we all came to adore in the old Bond movies: the nicer suits, the growing reputation, the ladykilling ethic, the gradual sophistication of what started out as a hired thug, etc. These are the real reasons to be excited about the new Bond movies. We get to watch how Bond acquired these characteristics, over time, as he gains more wealth and experience from working as the UK's most efficient secret agent killing machine. Here's to the third new Bond movie, and that it delivers the goods with a far more assured sense of balance than Quantum Of Solace did.

W.

W is a tour-de-force. It is incredibly nuanced (thanks to the outstanding performances by nearly everyone onboard: in particular Jeffrey Wright as Colin Powell's voice of reason, Thandie Newton nailing a caricature of Condi Rice that really has to be seen to be believed, Scott Glen captures Rummy's posed presence perfectly, Richard Dreyfuss wields his seniority and acting experience to full effect as Cheney [imo deserving an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actor], and Josh Brolin puts in such a well-textured Bush humanising rather than demonising our president, you can bet he will be nominated for the golden statuette as well), but all this nuance is not limited just to these actor's fine performances, equal measures of credit must be given to the writer and director, whose choices in what to leave out of the story are just as important as what they put in, and this is where I found the movie to achieve a near perfect balance in depicting just who this most "fortunate son" is, where he came from, and how he came to make a play for a presidency which arguably out-did his father's legacy while at the same time screwing it up even worse. It really is a remarkable piece of filmmaking which, I think, succeeds at a level I would have ordinarily thought impossible: it functions in a way which should polarise both Bush-haters and -supporters, because it refuses to pander to the biases of either camp. This, in my opinion, is the measure of a true and balanced work of cinematic art. I think Oliver Stone has come a long way towards a fair & balanced middle view with this film, showing his maturity as a human being and also his insight behind the real people that have really been running this country for the past eight years. It is not merely brave filmmaking, it is canny, smart, and crafty and dares to squeegee the mindset of the vastly divided American public for a clear view at "what really happened" during these dizzying, confusing times since 911. Go see W. not because you like Oliver Stone and certainly do not make the mistake of avoiding W. because its directed by him, but rather, go see W. because it is easily one of the most self-assured depictions of an American presidency ever committed to film.

I am going to step up to the plate here and state that W. is a great film. It's great not because of any misconstrued boldness in its execution or subtext, but rather, its a great film despite the lack of such judgmentalism (which I find bold in itself). I.e, it is a subtle film that poses nothing new to the American public in its details; yet what it does provide is in the laying-out of key events in the Bush presidency so that we are provided with an unprecedented opportunity to get a glimpse of the whole picture, and it does so with as much restraint towards personal bias as is humanly possible, I think. Here is a depiction of a living president still in office which dares to pay respect to the esteem that is traditionally owed to the presidency while at the same time revealing the all-too-human errors comitted during its increasingly disastrous term. I think that for this reason among others, W. will not only win its share of Oscars, but will also serve to give Oliver Stone back some of the respect he used to enjoy in the 90s. Only now he is older, wiser, and not anywhere as far out on the fringe left as he used to appear to be. Movie audiences the world over can only benefit from his having matured in this fashion, just as they can only benefit from taking a chance on seeing this excellent expose of a film. W. is entertaining, funny, insightful, charming, and disarming. It cuts through all the bullshit and gets to the heart of the story. I find that utterly remarkable. Some have criticized it for being "too close" to the source material, that it somehow lacks clarity of hindsight, etc. Although this may be true in some respects, I found that the movie's principal concerns are well within the writers sights. In fact, I'd argue the exact opposite from those critics by countering that, actually, the movie's entire point is rewarded by the freshness of its creator's perspectives. There is no better time than NOW for a moviemaker with the life experience of Oliver Stone to focus on this presidency - while its still fresh on our minds -- in order to expose the all-too human foibles clustered at its heart. This is a movie I am eager to see again, to marvel over Richard Dreyfuss's Dick Cheney, for the scenes of Bush's cabinet discussing matters in the War Room, for the sheer audacity of this veteran troupe of actors seizing their opportunities to really capture something real here. To coin the most obvious phrase that comes to mind, Oliver Stone knocked this one right out of the park.

HANCOCK

Caught HANCOCK at the dollar theater and I just want to say - -I will never see that dollar seventy-five again. You might think "what's a dollar seventy five, c'mon" but I assure you, I could've tipped a barista, bought a 100% pure apple drink, anything instead of wasting two hours of my life in a shoddy bucket seat.

I've never hated on Will Smith, myself, until now. I thought he was just okay in a few movies I'd seen. I, Robot was okay. Men In Black was perhaps a bit better than okay, and Will Smith fit that role in a pretty okay manner I'd say. All this glossification over the facts of the matter have come to an abrupt end. You might say my laisezz-faire bubble has been popped. You might even say my hatred for Will Smith has been freshly awakened at last. You'd be wrong - I don't hate the guy, but I sure loathe how he has come to be utilized in cinematic vehicles such as this.

Where to begin. What astonishes me is that there exists the committee out there to pump out this sort of dreck to us baby bird masses. And we gurgle it down like so many blind, featherless fetuses. I'm just going to say that for me to even swallow the premise of this movie - -that Will Smith is a bum with superpowers-- required most all of my own special superpower, that of the suspension of disbelief. At a certain point in the movie, something so unbelievable occurred, it was outright laughable, and the whole thing came collapsing down for me as I was unable to withhold such preposterous tonnage aloft. From that point on (which was probably the halfway point in the movie although it seemed interminably far into it) the plot (if you can call it that) just went off on a wildly incongruous series of increasingly idiotic spinoffs to the point that my jaw dropped in disbelief, I looked over at my girlfriend, and began paying more attention to her.

Of course, being the well-programmed Celluloid Dream Receptors that we are, our attentions would once again return to the big dumb screen ahead of us and to the unfathomable goings-on of the insipid characters hacked out by what has to be the most retarded (in terms of originality) committee of factory churned pulp parody bull crap the world has ever seen.

Allow me this moment to take this review to the next level, whilst I look up the credits for these particular offenders so that I might proclaim here loud and clearly on this public internet forum for you to Beware! Beware! of these notorious and somewhat misguided excuses for providing patently unpalatable movie pap:

Vincent Ngo and Vince Gilligan, step right up. You're on the Christ, That Ain't Right show. As the writers of this train wreck of a movie, you deserve the main booby prize, unless you can explain to us what happened, I'm of the mind that if I don't soften up a bit from our post dollar date rape affair, I am going to have no choice but go out of my way to avoid any movie with your names on it.

Peter Berg, come on down. As the Director of this what should have been deemed an unscreenable and offensive exercise in humorless malice, I award you Worse Than Uwe Boll [WTUB] status, and that means that every movie you ever made before this will go down permanently in our archives as Insufferably Pretentious and will retroactively be deemed Inherently Unwatchable regardless of how well its brainwashed target audience was tricked into receiving it back in the day.

Hmm, Chicago Hope... there's a show I'll never watch. "Very Bad Things", that was with Christian Slater, wasn't it? I heard it was a piece o' shit. Also the pilot and first episode of Wonderland, I'll cross that off my list right now. Oh and Friday Night Lights, I see. Didn't Explosions In The Sky do the soundtrack to that? That's pretty cool actually.

Anyhow, there you have it. Take my advice and save your dollar and just avoid seeing HANCOCK. Did I mention Charlize Theron was in it? Forget about it kid, she was the worst part of the whole sordid affair. Like I said, take my advice and save your dollar and tip your barista instead. It'll build up a hell of a stronger charge in your karma than seeing this onscreen stillbirth of what ought to have been an aborted movie.

Speed Racer

Go, Go, Go Wachowskis

I really enjoyed The Wachowski's virtually flawless adaptation of Speed Racer, and although my inner 8 year old is alive and kicking, it wasn't that alone which made the movie for me. What made the movie for me was partly its inherent concern for the clash of certain family values--that of the nuclear unit (think about that phrase for a minute, I think its a powerful metaphor) vs. the corporate family--and partly its stellar execution of a simple cartoon we loved as kids. Roger Allam was perfect as the diabolical owner of Royalton--he exuded satanic, corporate power.

When he's trying to get Speed Racer to sign that contract, I gotta say something: I caved. I was urging Speed Racer on to sign the contract; that's how good Roger Allam is in this role. And yes--the film served me a lesson, how do you like that? Chalk it up to good moviemaking, my own gullibility (which may not even be rivalled by that of Speed Racer's), or a blessed combination of both, which allows this particular moviegoer the suspension-of-disbelief framework necessary to traverse these often bumpy cinematic trajectories.

So what's with the Speed Racer hate? I've given the matter sufficient thought to decide it's a conspiracy, that's clear to see. We live in the era of Newspeak; we are up to our ears in it. The fact this movie has received a 35% approval-rating on rottentomatoes.com raises suspicions in me that The Powers That Be don't want you to like this movie. That's how subversive I believe the Wachowski Bros' latest, slick movie product to be. They can get ridiculed all the way to the bank for all I care, but I know populist subversion when I see it. And I like their movies a lot.

Matthew Fox nailed the role of Racer X. Good thing Keanu Reeves turned down this role, because his familiarity would've tainted it, for us. (Perhaps that factored into his declining.) It has given Matthew Fox the opportunity to turn in a well calculated effort in the mysterious role of Racer X. Really, everyone in this thing put in the extra effort to lend their abject realism to a kid's manga--think about it.

So, again, what's with the Speed Racer hate? You don't have to go figure--look around you, at our plasticized, fake society. A society whose values have become nearly inverted. (It makes me wonder how many people out there claiming they hated this movie, secretly liked it, but they're just too embarrased, somehow, to admit it.) I don't want to get too deeply into the inherent symbolism behind Racer X's character--it's writ quite plain in the film's subtext--but its just one small portion of a virtual smorgasbord of hyperkinetic moviemaking this film offers, for this century. This is the good stuff, as far as I'm concerned. Like the John Kricfalusi Ren & Stimpys, gonzo entertainment with a double-entendre, Speed Racer's got something for everyone. But there's clearly somebody out there that just doesn't want you to see it. And I'm afraid this someone's army of disenfranchised minions is starting to care less about it, too. If that's not mysteriously veiled enough for you, then let me say this.

I sure hope this movie gets a higher critical rating from the underground, to offset the smeared campaign currently being waged against it. It deserves recognition for what it is--a daring and faithful adaptation of a beloved japanese children's manga. The Wachowski Bros have redeemed themselves, in my book. And I'm not convinced I should have ever doubted them in the first place.


If you fall into the widespread network of distorted lies and falsifications inadvertent agents of "The Man" are desperately trying to spread about this film, then you really are just another programmed iBot who traded in your original brain for the media-controlled feeding frenzy of opinions out there meant to mold you into yet another compliant clone to be herded along with the rest of the sheep. The Wachowskis know exactly what they are doing, and they adorn the simple Speed Racer story with a compelling subtext which valiantly fights for the right of the uncorrupted everyman to stand up for what he believes in--so long as what he believes in is the right thing--and not the "bling thing" (if you know what I mean).

What I'm saying is, every self-disrespecting corporate whore who sold their soul long ago to this cheap, plasticized digital empire of meaningless filth will have their circuits fried at this movie. I can picture them emerging from the neon-dazzled darkness blinking "does not compute / does not compute" while they blindly reach for their iPods to soothe their provoked and collective conscience. A quick push of the PLAY button will wash out their need to think and they can resume being pacified at the corporate teat of synthesized hypnomusic and dream about their next free MP3 offer when they log back on to AOL online. It appears to me that the Wachowskis have pitched their good-message movie to a nation already turned soulless. The hordes of drooling, mindless idiots out there had already lost their last shred of humanity by the time Speed Racer opened in theaters Friday, May 9, 2008. The movie is representative of a nearly extinct ethic. This, perhaps, is one of the reasons for all the hate spewed out in its wake.

Think for yourself, and go rent the movie already. Otherwise, go ahead and sign that fat contract and just lie down so the minions of ignorance may continue to discreetly gang rape you. All I'm saying is, if you don't like Speed Racer the movie without having seen it, your soul was hopelessly corrupted a long time ago. It just goes to show how we can so easily be bought into the media-induced efforts at discrediting someone's brilliantly subversive upgrade of a kid's cartoon. If you are one of those people who deep inside used to like the Speed Racer cartoon as a kid, but have grown up to become an adult whose opinion of something can be molded by a 35% rating at Rottentomatoes, then you are a lost soul primed to be flushed down the toilet of the New Corporatism. If, on the other hand, there is still a shred of individuality left in what passes for your spiritually ravaged shell of a body, you might take a chance that the critics (and the robots who blindly follow them) are wrong about this one, and Speed Racer might actually qualify as a pretty fun time at the movies.

Go rent Speed Racer and help spread the word. Otherwise, go back to your mindless jobs of becoming fodder for this soulless age of easily programmed corporatism. Either fight the power, or get out of the way. Get on the side of the good guys, or continue being patsies and human shields for the evil underlings of the Corporate Empire; it's your choice. The Wachowski Bros have clearly demarcated which side of that line they stand on. And I, for one, know that I stand with them, for now. Oh wait a second, this movie isn't about the Matrix--? It's just a fantasy, you say--? Well, it's good Saturday morning fare, at least. I recommend it for people who can check their baggage at the door, and enjoy some mildly subversive family fare. Whatever it is that the Wachowskis are dreaming up next, you can be sure I'll be interested in checking it out for myself, at the very least.

The Darjeeling Limited

I saw the new Wes Anderson last night - - my girlfriend had been dying to take me (and I was pretty stoked to check it out, myself) -- and I have to say I really enjoyed it, very much.

I liked the simplicity of its set-up, and how it really stuck with the three brothers throughout their journey on the Darjeeling express. My comment to my girlfriend as we walked out of the theater, was that it was "Tenderer" than the previous Wes Anderson flicks, and that's the principal feeling behind why I liked it so much. There was less pretension to this movie, less characters, less complexity, and that made for a more straightforward and enjoyable ride.

Owen Wilson was great as the eldest son. Adrien Brody was well cast as one of his brothers; they both got that misshapen-nose thing going on. And Jason Schwartzman, well don't ask me why he wasn't in The Royal Tenenbaums - at least I don't recall him starring in that - and I personally feel he should at least have a minor starring role in every Wes Anderson movie, by definition.

I realized something about Wes Anderson's movies, and its that they play across the screen like giant kid's books, only for adults. There's a simplicity of plot elements and goings-on that reminds me of turning the pages in a children's book, I can't really explain it any better than that. Darjeeling Limited is no exception; if anything, that sense of being guided through a narrative intent on enlightening its audience (the way children's books do) is even more pronounced in this movie, and to pretty good effect, I might add.

By now its no secret that Wes Anderson's movies have a quirky sensibility to them that is not to everyone's tastes. That, of course, makes them even more special to those of us who have acquired this taste. I'd wager The Darjeeling Limited is no exception: you'll either love it or hate it.

I loved it. It wasn't as bombastic nor epic in scope as Tenenbaums, nor was it as in-depth with characterizations as The Life Aquatic; but there was real charm in its simplicity and directness about the three brothers struggling to overcome each other's differences whilst on their spiritual journey across India.

Another fine addition to the growing, eclectic canon of Wes Anderson's films.

George A. Romero's DIARY OF THE DEAD

I haven't written a proper review for George A. Romero's Diary Of The Dead because, well mainly because I don't want to spoil it for you. How do you spoil a zombie movie, you say (haha, nice question)? Well lemme tell ya, George puts a spin on his zombie mythos here that should plaster a rictus on the face of every fan alive.

All you need to know is, he really does reboot his series (I hate calling it a 'franchise' even though it is) for the 21st century, and w/all the piss and vinegar of his youth. He may be pushing his late sixties, but behind the camera he is ageless.

Diary Of The Dead showcases the evisceration of his original four-film series with a completely new start. Only this time, the zombie uprising begins all over again for a new "night" of terror in 2008; and brothers & sisters, it ain't the sixties anymore.

Romero cleverly implements every video cam motif since Blair Witch and succeeds in trumping even Cloverfield. Yes, I am stating that Diary Of The Dead bumps Cloverfield down from its current (briefly held) 1 spot of "Best Videocam Horror Movie Ever", which is un-ironic in the extreme, when you consider that it was George Romero himself who could most arguably be given the title for "Original Blair Witch" moviemaker, with his seminal Night Of The Living Dead hitting theaters and mass consciousness everywhere in 1968. With its "home movie" grainy black and white footage, the original Night Of The Living Dead can be seen now, with the clarity of hindsight, as being truly the forerunner for such fare as The Blair Witch Project.

In other words, George A. Romero's Diary Of The Dead IS that style of moviemaking's true Godfather come home to roost at last. And boy does he deliver. The levels of "film within a film" and multi-faceted reflections his multiple camera lenses reveal about us get to explore deeper than ever before that strange relation between zombies and ourselves his previous films hinted at so well.

In fact, Diary Of The Dead is an immense improvement over Land Of The Dead (which I enjoyed very much). It is DIARY's relentlessly independent spirit which annihilates LAND's bigger studio limitations.

It is not without its flaws; Romero's script seems to rub in a tad overtly some of what should have remained subtext. Perhaps in his zeal to focus on our human condition he forewent some of the subtlety captured in the original trilogy. But these are bold times and I'm afraid he felt it necessary to club a certain percentage of his audiences (*koff*/zombies) with the subtext in the form of his lead lady's commentary. Yet I felt these new unknown actors did a fine job indeed of capturing the hysteria and amateurism inherent to their characters (themselves an independent film crew attempting to film a cheap horror movie about a mummy).

And all you gore hounds out there, fear not. Like I mentioned, George is ageless behind the camera, so he will not disappoint you in that respect. There are plenty of wicked cool, creative zombie deaths here, and even a few quirky surprises to keep audiences laughing out loud as they gasp in shock.

I don't know what else to say without getting too much into the film itself. Other than to state, thank God for keeping Romero alive & well for us all to enjoy this immensely entertaining and pleasurable reboot of his beloved franchise (sigh). I'm certain any real self-respecting Romero fan will love this movie; I know our entire audience at Sundance in Salt Lake City sure did.

Despite having seen it @Sundance already, you can bet your ass I'll be there once again come opening night, when it hits major theaters everywhere in the next month or so.

ZODIAC

I finally saw ZODIAC and I have to say, it is an excellent police procedural type of thriller. If you're looking for mindless entertainment, then I can see how you'd find it boring, perhaps. But I was riveted to the screen the entire time. Wonderful performances by Robert Downey Jr and Jake Gylenhall. The actor who played the main cop on the case, David, did a great job. I didn't catch the actor's name.

The movie is a lot of things, more so than your typical, straightforward serial killer thriller. And of course, that is precisely its saving grace. Everyone who was bored with it, what did you want? Just more of the same? I, for one, was quite grateful that Fincher understood that in telling the story of the Zodiac killer, he was bound to have to focus on a much wider palette than just a killer thriller.

ZODIAC is as much about the media as it is anything else. And the way it interacts with police investigations. It is about the maddening, labyrinthine relationship the law has with the media, and the relationships between real people and the results of these interactions. In choosing to focus on the Zodiac killings, director David Fincher has succeeded in dissecting the unfolding society of the late 60s in the San Francisco area and allowing us to watch it evolve into the slow modernization of the early 70s. We get an unprecedented opportunity to watch the real priorities organize themselves when it comes to the law attempting to apprehend a killer at large.

There are several noteworthy sequences of Fincher's trademark brilliance in cinematography and camera work. The set pieces are so convincing, especially the opening sequence on the Fourth of July, 68 or so, wherein one long leftwards panning shot takes in a few blocks of a suburban neighborhood, with the fireworks exploding in the background, which is a beautiful example of this camera work. He really takes us back in time, and that is one of the strong points of this movie.

ZODIAC is an ambitious film in its simple objective to tell the story of those killings from the perspective of the political cartoonist, played perfectly by Jake Gylenhall, the guy who was so obsessed with the case, that he applied his Eagle Scout sincerity in attempting to solve what the police somehow couldn't.

An utterly absorbing film packed to the gills with real, crucial performances by a host of talented actors. Its ability to thread together the information pertinent to this case and present it all in just 2 and a half hours is truly a creative achievement that I hope gets recognized in hollywood. The movie is definitely a return to form for Fincher, whose somewhat lackluster Panic Room didn't do much for myself or critics, other than some fancy camera work effects. On the other hand, Zodiac is more concerned with developing the highly complex network of human interactions behind the scenes of a sensational piece of reporting such as befits that of a serial killer still at large in the streets.

It opens up plenty of byways for us to question in the due process of the law, and what roles do reporters and citizens get to play in the "game" of hunting down a killer at large. In so doing, it exposes a fundamental flaw in our society which seems to somehow trump justice for media exposure or fame, and serves to provide us with a wide angle view of the legal complexities which prevent us from achieving efficiency in our judicial system.

I found it endlessly fascinating, and a welcome addition to our cineplexes. If you enjoy a quite intricate puzzle that demands you use your brain, don't hesitate to see this entertaining, landmark film. On the other hand, if all you want is another SAW movie or something to titillate and terrify, or otherwise offer your mind an escape, avoid the subtle, rewarding complexities of Zodiac, and go see The Number 23 instead. Don't get me wrong. I kinda liked The Number 23, actually. But it ain't no ZODIAC, not by a long shot. We need more thoroughly intelligent films about serial killers like Fincher's ZODIAC.

Inland Empire

Saw INLAND EMPIRE last night. Jezuz crispity crackers on a bunny head. Laura Dern's psycho cracked operatic multi-faceted schizo actress trapped between mirrors in her infinite reflections of a lost alice dropped down the rabbit hole and down into the basement below hollywood's shifting impossible labyrinth is a heady, spacey, downright freakish exercise in maddening the sheepish flocks that frequent normal movie fare, and presenting the rest of us w/a recipe for nightmares & hollywood squares stacking up against the innocent dream of fame & fortune one might wish the film industry provides, well, not according to ol' squirrel obsessed master of misfortune David Lynch, who almost predictably provides an abject lesson in the inherent whoredom of hollywood's lush ever tightening trap for wide eyed innocent girls who otherwise might have thought their aspiration for success would provide a life free from duress. INLAND EMPIRE is a twisted, savage masterpiece sure to leave the majority of its hapless audience in the dark wondering why they wasted nearly 3 hours of their lives along with 8 dollars gone, but for the tenacious Lynch fan it is a plethora of warped dream pretzel logic tied up in pretty conundrums of an Escher-like nature, setting up a premise of a cursed movie in which the starring roles of the lead actor and actress have been murdered in past efforts of filming it. This basic premise sets us up for an ever -maddening yet compelling tightening of the screws of nightmare and insanity as Dern's character wanders deeper and deeper into The Black Lodge - here revealed w/its signature red velvet curtains as a possible metaphor for the line between fantasy (cinema) and reality (audience/actor participation). It is as if Lynch is stating metaphorically in cinematic terms what Renee Magritte stated w/his "This Is Not A Pipe" painting. This is not a movie, but a reflection of a portrayal of what movies are; which, when you get right down to it, are reflections of what our own fears and aspirations in life happen to be.

There be plenty of bewitching performances in the classic Lynchian tradition here, of particular note is the startling and eerie gypsy oration given by Grace Zabriskie, who plays "Visitor #1", a bizarre neighboring lady who knocks on Dern's door and begins intoning mysterious things of a cryptic & uneasy nature. I also appreciated Jeremy Irons' quaint, easygoing portrayal of the devious director of the cursed film, and of course what true underground cult movie fan wouldn't smile from ear to ear to see Harry Dean Stanton cast once again as a charming con man on the mysterious movie set.

The thing one must realize about this movie is, at a certain point, you just gotta GIVE UP trying to figure out wtf it's all about, and instead, let yourself go deeper into the unconscious dream realm Lynch has woven, like a spider preparing a fly for a future feasting. Therefore this is NOT, by any stretch of the imagination, your typical linear narrative picture replete w/understandable characters or plot. It is instead, that rarest of hollywood endeavors, the true, blue, cinematic equivalent of surreal poetry, and if that ain't somethin' you imagine wanting to sit through, then by all means, stay the fuck away from this picture for god's sake, or at least your very own. I mean, don't even go there: this movie is strictly for "art fags" (I say that with loving defiance), David Lynch fans, and purveyor's of the darkest and strangest arts.

It is, in short, a hallucinatory exposition filmed entirely in symbolic terms about the soullessness inherent to the hollywood process of putting would-be stars through the grinder of exploitation. It is a modern fable that uses the world of making movies as a metaphor for the danger of wandering too far beyond the fringes of ordinary reality and becoming lost in the mirroring realm of one's inner fantasy life.

It is rich, vivid, uncanny, disturbing, wrong, perplexing, insane, and brilliant. Lynch's infamous use of sound is developed to its unnerving extreme once again, wherein he brilliantly utilizes the soundtrack to keep the gravity of the narrative anchored to a sense of "realtime", which juxtaposes beautifully with the slow crystallization of the developing nightmare, like a polaroid photograph slowly revealing images focusing up out of the darkness, some of which, once revealed, you almost wish you hadn't seen.

Guaranteed to be reviled by those innocent souls who wander in to "see what its all about", but at the same time a worthy addition to the David Lynch canon, of which this latest installment is replete with all the familiar trappings yet somehow manages to delve further and deeper than ever before into the true, stark Lynchian landscape his devoted followers have learned to love since Eraserhead bewitched us so long ago.

It is an odd sort of "anti-film" which quietly rages against the forum of its own production, a sort of suicidal love note fired into the darkest region of our hearts, with the secret intent of planting a seed there which will later grow to bloom open most likely as a nightmare while our conscious minds are trying to get some rest after we go to sleep at night. Sure to reveal more petals of significance upon repeated viewings, but at the same time maddeningly daring the most stalwart amongst us to sit through it all again, something I'm afraid only the most die hard would consider doing. In other words, an ultimately challenging film, which I find admirable in the face of Hollywood's normal drive to provide blissfull, mindless escape for its audiences. "Escape" is the last thing INLAND EMPIRE aspires to provide for its hapless viewers; it is, instead, rather like a self-imposed incarceration in a stark prison wherein the mind is enriched immeasurably from deprivation of the normally longed-for nutrients of entertainment. INLAND EMPIRE is solely for the devout explorer of the inner realms of the human psyche, the monks of abstraction who, like those that fast to purify their systems, wish for nothing so much as an antidote to cure them of the infectious malaise propogated by your average blockbuster.

See INLAND EMPIRE and be purged of the mindless filth plaguing Hollywood today, and walk out of the theater unable to get the dirty taste out of your mouth. Then go home and rinse thoroughly with dreams.
Do not say I didn't warn you.

Eastern Promises

Wow, what a movie! Eastern Promises, in contrast to its predecessor, manages to make A History Of Violence look like the comic book story it actually was. With his latest foray into gangster styled violence and bloodshed, Cronenberg makes painstaking efforts to have the material come across as realistically as possible.

Whereas AHOV was an idealized fable highlighting the symbolic aspects of how violence affects the nuclear unit in America, Eastern Promises does nearly a 180 degree turnabout to showcase as realistically as possible how an underground mob's legacy is built, supported, and inevitably, as any model of corrupt civilization must do, how it falls; or rather, how it evolves and is passed on to the next generation. Compared to AHOV, there is only a fraction of stylization in this movie - that is, symbolic subtext. To let you in on what that is exactly would amount to a rotten spoiler, so I won't get into that aspect of it. Leave it said that this is a far grittier, bloodier, and more realistic account of events than AHOV, by a long shot.

Viggo Mortensen is perfectly cast in the role of Nikolai. He brings a very tight and focused performance to the big screen that is destined to heap even more accolades upon him. Here is a leading man sure to scramble to the top of the heap in a day when there is no shortage of leading men: Russell Crowe, Clive Owen, Edward Norton, Leonardo DiCaprio, Ryan Gosling, Robert Downey Jr, Benicio Del Toro, Christian Bale, Robert Deniro, Samuel Jackson, Joaquin Phoenix, Ralph Fiennes, Jeff Bridges, Morgan Freeman, Geoffrey Rush, Brad Pitt . . . Viggo could win a staring contest with any one of these powerhouse actors.

Naomi Watts may sort of come across as a one trick pony to some, I mean, it seems as if she plays practically the same role in every movie she's in; but somehow she's got that down pat, and always comes across very likable and convincing, regardless of the movie she's in. Maybe I'm biased because she's incredibly attractive, but once again she turns in a solid performance as Anna, a midwife whose mundane life is injected with danger as she begins investigating a teenager who dies during childbirth in the hospital Anna works at.

Despite its select moments of overt violence, what lends this movie its power is actually its understatements and subtleties. This makes for a nice contrast, lending the film a very finely honed tone.

I personally thought the most amazing performance in the movie went to Armin Mueller-Stahl, who portrayed the elder father of this Russian mob family. What made this performance all the more impressive is how it never once became overstated. Just a glimmer in his eye held enough portent of impending threat to give his character as much chilling weight as any classic Godfather figure from movies in the past; i.e, Mueller-Stahl did not need a bloodied baseball bat, a Mac-10 nor even a single moment of violence to carry across the message that he was not someone to mess with. It was this sort of realism which lent Eastern Promises more weight than your typical "Goodfella's"-type scene, wherein a stylized mobster flexes his power in a sudden burst of physical violence; all Armin Mueller-Stahl had to do was look at you with his grandfatherly mask to get you thinking twice about how to handle him. Some of the movie's most effective moments can be attributed to him, while he spoke and behaved in the most grandfatherly of ways.

All in all I'd have to say Eastern Promises is as solid an adult- themed movie as any thoughtful audience member could wish for. And as always, Cronenberg is masterful in his implementation of cinematography and guiding the actors to create a striking motion picture that truly resonates long after the curtains close.

Be warned, however: Eastern Promises' sequences of violence get pretty gruesome and realistic. I'd even go so far as to suggest the infamous steam room scene may just be eligible for the most realistically staged and bloodiest fight in movie history; definitely not for the squeamish. However, that said, Eastern Promises ends up being surprising for its lack of typical violent-fare, i.e, no dumb car chases, no idiotic gun fights, and no predictable outbursts of typical violence: just pure and realistic mob affairs set to Howard Shore's suitable musical score, and a cast of actors in top notch form.

28 Weeks Later

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28 Weeks Later isn't messing around when it comes to providing an over-the-top horrific nightmare scenario, and although I liked it a lot, I just have to say my main problem with it, was the sound level. Hey, I know I listen to deathmetal, but that doesn't mean I appreciate my ears being blasted by insanely loud sounds/screaming/clawing in a movie theater to the point it makes you wince from it, swear to god if I'd known certain sequences were going to be that loud, I'd brought earplugs. Not to mention it bugs the hell outta me that some directors find it necessary to scare their audiences not from carefully modulated or built up suspense (although the film was not without those aspects, as well) and/or scenes of intense freakish (and quiet) terror, but from scaring the beejezuz out of you from the sheer sudden noise factor; its like a copout.

That said, the movie was still effectively scary in the sense a good horror movie about a viral zombie-esque outbreak should be, there's little room for doubt on that point. 28 WEEKS LATER certainly cranks up the nightmare factor, the gore, the blood, the brains, the screaming clawing frenzied shoving mob of super crack-addicted zombies breakdancing on your face and dribbling bloody drool onto your eyes and such. And of course it stars Robert Carlysle, one of my favorite character actors (Trainspotting, Ravenous, etc), and he brings the old Carlysle intensity to his role (and then some).

The movie's weaker points come from, I don't know, that whole shaky-cam thing that Danny Boyle kinda kickstarted with the first movie in this franchise (and make no mistake about it, we're all set for a 28 MONTHS LATER, don't act so surprised), and I have to admit this director (the spanish director of the movie INTACTO, which I've heard much about but haven't seen) took the Romero-inspired premise to new heights of horrific action (including one scene so outlandishly gory & over-the-top, that you applaud it while at the same time cringing from its inherent unbelievablity -- i.e, the plausibility factor completely implodes during it), but the movie also suffers from a certain sterility akin to the kind you get from filming in video, although I think a part of that is the point, stylistically, so it's got this mixed results thing going. During certain sequences, one gets the distinct feeling the director is flexing his muscles in the same manner a heavymetal band delivers a smokin' killer riff, there is much bravado in the directorial style, which I, as a heavymetal fan myself, totally dug, ya dig?

All in all however, the director pulled it off with some extra characterizations, such as the one military sniper who refuses to follow orders when they're given clearance to "shoot everybody on the ground, no exceptions", he was one of the film's strong points (he kinda resembled Elliott Smith to me) and he lent the story a bit more gravitas.

All in all, the movie 28 WEEKS LATER is a carefully constructed tone-poem of disease, despair, and disaster in a post-terrorist world that tries, and mostly succeeds, to depict a nihilistic humanity whose selfishness and weakness (as opposed to sacrifice and courage in the face of adversity) have largely brought us to the point of virtual implosion. The director paid a keen eye to the family unit, and symbolically comments on the overall human condition by representing what occurs to this one family. All I can say is, it ain't pretty, and that, I would add, is an understatement.

28 WEEKS LATER is a revved-up, post-zombie flick for the new generation. It's loud, lean, and mean, and doesn't mess around. It goes straight for the audience's jugular, and if you aren't excited by that prospect, you might want to stay away from this one. On the other hand, if you're looking for some new heights (and depths) to frenzied, incoherent nightmares concerning biological terrorism and its fallout, by all means, fork up the feature price for this one and prepare for a harrowing time at the movies. Just don't forget your earplugs.

The Devil's Rejects

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A Love Letter To Horror Fans

My impression of The Devil's Rejects is that it's a love-letter, signed & sealed by Rob Zombie and delivered straight to all the old-school horror fans. Just as sheriff Wydell states in the movie, "I've been walking the line my whole life, until I seen there is no line", this story simply tells it like it is, and sticks to the facts of what essentially is a showdown between good & evil, only everything ain't OK at the corral, in Rob Town.

Somewhere in the presentation of this dynamic lies the film's saving grace. Because what it manages to slyly pull off is invite the discriminating viewer to put forth a judgment on the proceedings. "Slyly" because that is the one thing the filmmaker never does (make a judgment). The Devil's Rejects is not what many (who haven't seen it, ironically) will have you believe it is -- an alleged "celebration" of violence or evil; but rather, it is merely an in-depth examination of the characteristics of both evil & good, and how the line that would be drawn between them is either incredibly elastic or may not even exist at all. (If there was ever a rape scene, it was thankfully cut.)

The movie is at once a horror film based on the structure of a classic western, and if viewed as a monster movie, it can be noted that the monster wears a mask of the human face. I found the movie to redeem itself from the accusations of those who refuse to see it, for the very reason that it has baited them into committing the mistake of judgmentalism -- the very act it refrains from indulging in, itself. The movie succeeds in the simple respect of telling a straightforward story. The fact many audience members find themselves actually rooting for the outlaws (yet not necessarily sympathizing with them) rather than the clan of cops who have sunk to their level in retaliation, becomes one of the most striking aspects of Rob Zombie's achievement.

If you like horror films, monster movies, or westerns, this movie was made for you. Signed, sealed, & delivered with a deadly kiss, from Rob Zombie to all of us.


DVD notes

Picked this up for only 9.99 - had to -- & watched it (again) Sat night, and I have to reiterate, Rob Zombie has delivered as close to an american slasher/classic as we could expect from him. There are at least 3 if not 4 or 5 classic sequences in this film: There's the "Fuck Charlie Chaplin!" scene when Sheriff Wydell defends The King; there's the howling-mad-Mother-Firefly-when-she's-in-prison scene; there's William fuckin' Forsythe in several classic scenes as Sheriff Wydell (he alone practically carries this movie); there's Ken Foree as Charlie Altamount, playin a classic pimp down to a T; you got Danny Trejo in here as a hardened Mexican hired assassin; you got Geoffrey Lewis (originally seen in the first Salem's Lot TV movie); and who can forget Bill Moseley's chilling portrayal of the star killer Otis, half Charlie Manson / half Jesus's evil twin ?

This is one badass of a killer horror film, that one-ups its predecessor by eliminating the camp entirely in favor of a realistic, but not without its sense of comedic relief, serial killer movie. What makes this one so remarkable of course, is how easily Rob Zombie manages to elicit a degree of sympathy from the viewer for the Firefly family, accomplished by making the character of Sheriff John Quincy Wydell every bit as a mean motherfuckin' psycho killer as those he is intent on hunting down and personally eliminating off the face of the earth.

Then there's the inspired end-sequence that puts the classic song Freebird into sharp relief for the silver screen; just another die-hard classic sequence that brings this awesome movie to the end credits perfectly.

A must-own DVD for the hardcore horror fanatic.

HERO

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What a beautiful, stunning film HERO is.
The sort of movie you'll never see get made here, not in a million years, and not just because of the obvious parallels it draws from its subject matter to the inherent questions of honor and sacrifice in war and how they relate to our own post-September 11th politics; but more fundamentally, it is a morality tale that the modern Western mind is largely unconcerned with. Would that we over here gave ourselves over to such matters more often, more seriously, and with one tenth the passion with which the Chinese exemplify.

There is much thoughtfulness and wisdom to be drawn from the story of the King of Qin, whose aim in feudal-era China was to put an end to all War by conquering all the land and uniting it underneath one banner.

The problem of course arises in the blood of his enemies, shed necessarily as a sacrifice for the greater cause of putting an end to nation's wars once and for all. As one might imagine, many assassins driven by vengeance wish to kill this King for having slain their families during his visionary campaign.

Jet Li plays our hero who is referred to only as the "Nameless" warrior. He has been granted audience with this King in his own court for having slain these most deadly assassins.

HERO is the quintessential "SWORD" movie. If you are into swords and swordplay at all -- this movie is for you. I personally consider Jet Li to be the only martial-arts mega-box-office movie star to have nicely filled Bruce Lee's shoes. His martial arts style is a natural follow up to Lee's unique hybrid style, and he is unmatched in his discipline and prowess.

I won't give away any of the movie's unfolding charms, but believe me when I say that the ideas expressed in this film would be considered far too "dangerous" for it to have ever been made here, much less released. I'm not sure if that is one of the underlying reasons for its having been delayed -- this movie has been out several years, and I can see how Homeland Security would not be wanting their faithful bleating Sheep to flock to such a powerful work of art that forces the mind to dwell upon such serious matters as honor, integrity, and sacrifice in times of war.

As such, I feel HERO should be mandatory viewing for all American citizens to dwell on these burning questions. The movie was so beautiful and powerful it left me speechless, and humbled.

I am not worthy to rate such a work as that. I myself could only hope to warrant a "2-and-a-half-star rating" as a mere mortal being; whereas such a work of cinematic art so wholeheartedly devoted to it's ideals as HERO is beyond my qualifications to engender with a rating. I can only urge everyone to see it with an open heart and mind.

The Fountain

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Stunning, Beautiful, and Sobering Meditation On The Dream Of Immortality

Darren Aronofsky's The Fountain is truly brilliant. I now believe Aronofsky to be the one director alive today that has slipped comfortably into Kubrick's shoes (and it's not just because of the trippy visuals.) Here is a director who truly perceives the medium of film as an art, and who fearlessly creates original motion pictures regardless of their box office potential.

The Fountain is a beautiful movie. The music is enthralling -- I noticed during the end credits that Kronos Quartet played some of the music, which was composed gloriously by Clint Mansell. I even saw Mogwai mentioned! In any case -- an absolute must-see film for serious moviegoers. It is the real thing. The cinematography is stunning, and there is not one sequence or bit of dialogue wasted. Hugh Jackman is simply perfect in his 3 roles.

There is no doubt in my mind that The Fountain is the best of the 3 Aronofsky films thus far. He is really maturing as a director.

By the way, ignore the critics who allege this movie is 'flawed' because the director doesn't supply any 'answers'. It is actually part of the reason the movie is perfect.

It is a stunning, beautiful, and sobering meditation on the dream of immortality. The director knows exactly what he's doing. Audiences who can't keep up w/this film have no right to place the blame on the filmmaker; rather, they should place the blame squarely on their own shoulders for being largely ignorant of the various minutae that the movie is grounded upon.

What we have here, essentially, is that glorious & quite rare achievement to come out of Hollywood: cinema analogous to poetry (particularly for the futurist -scenario wherein our protagonist is captured in a clear bubble travelling deep through our galaxy). These sequences are pure cinematic poetry because unlike the 16th-century sequences & the present-day ones, which clearly are based on known historical and current trends, the future is a big question mark and Aronofsky pulls out all stops in envisioning his own set & setting to capture the inner mental universe of the protagonist.

The results are a truly mind-expanding glimpse into the inner & outer worlds of human beings' passions and foibles. Yes, the movie is a love story at heart - - something that may throw off the cynics & bitterly jaded amongst us, but for the true romantics at heart, it is pulled off miraculously.

Here is a a truly important American film pulled off with style and intelligence by a director fated to be recognized as that true anomaly in Hollywood: a genuine artist.

If you go see movies to escape or witness formulaic chase scenes, macho posturing, and all the rest that comes with the fleet of franchises sprouting from Hollywood's cultivated fields of banality, by all means don't bother with this.

If, on the other hand, you want to appreciate a true work of art that does not bother to "provide answers" but rather, challenge the audience with real and staggering implications of what it means to be alive and in love in this lifetime--look no further than Darren Aronofsky's third triumph, The Fountain.

What Is It?

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I saw "What Is It?" last night, and met the director, Mr. Crispin Glover. What a cool guy. Here's what the movie is about. Our protagonist is a fellow with Down Syndrome. He likes talking to snails. They are his friends. One day this snail whispers to him. The things it says freak our Down Syndrome main character out. He doesn't know how to take it. Eventually he reacts by smashing the snaily. Immediately he regrets his actions. In a tender, heart shattering scene, he dismally tries to piece together the dead snail's broken bits of shell, to no avail. This is when another snail shows up and hisses in a whisper "Where is our friend"?, and our protagonist won't answer, too ashamed of his murderous act, and too afraid of the other snail to admit it. He leaves the house just as the snail discovers the smashed, slain body of its friend. The piercing screams of the snail are mind numbingly sharp and harrowing, and our hero must slam the door in the face of that sound. He ends up locking himself outside. Since he can't get back into the house, he takes off on an adventure in search of his roommates, who have the key. Thus begins one of the most bizarre odysseys captured on celluloid. There is a surreal underlandscape wherein Crispin portrays a long haired cacodaemon sitting atop a stone throne, overseeing various down syndrome female attendants. He symbolizes an inner aspect of our upland Down Syndrome friend; the way he sees his inner self. There are freaky monkey masked women crawling around down there, in and out of craters, collecting watermelons which later prove to be symbolic extensions of aboveland person's heads. There is one extended scene of a monkey woman masturbating an ugly man while he rests naked in a clamshell. Yet he never gets an erection, a slight indication that this underworld might be an aspect of Hell. There is a minstrel in blackface who is there to serve the cacodaemon. This minstrel is constantly injecting snail enzymes into his cheek in an effort to wholly transform himself into an invertebrate. He muses on this dream of his of letting his human shape go, to become like the snails whom he admires so, with only 400 injections to go. In the meantime there is a doll of Shirley Temple who arrives amidst imagery of Nazi swastikas. An old war era poster shows Shirley Temple as a naked prepubescent girl holding a riding crop in her hand. A close up of the riding crop's handle reveals she has it semi inserted into her bald pubes. Meanwhile, above in the "real" world, our Down Syndrome protagonist is found in various stages of interaction with his Down Syndrome roommates. One is his girlfriend, and we are treated to a dramatic scene where they engage in a romantic kissing session in the park. The music swells terribly in a Wagnerian crescendo overdramatizing this simple exchange of tenderness. This whole time the surviving snail remains screaming horrifically over the shattered corpse of its friend. One day our hero learns to put salt on the snails. He watches as the salt's acids corrode away the snail's lives as they foam up from under their shells, dissolving in what must be an explicitly painful demise. It seems he is asserting his superiority over the helpless snailys. The film seems to manage the impossible, which is simply putting everything into perspective for the audience member. By the end of the movie, viewers will be rubbing out their eyes from what they've just witnessed.

During the Q&A session afterwards, Crispin took much time to painstakingly defend his curious and surreal film. He went to great lengths to explain that in today's corporate sponsored age, there are certain elements or things that filmmakers simply are not allowed to show. "What Is It?" is a direct retaliation against this stifling of artistic freedom. As such, it is a pure and refined film of utter defiance. Afterwards, I was the first in line to meet Crispin and I told him as much. I said "I think your film is pure & true; keep on fighting the good fight man!" And I explained to him that I'd been a fan of his for going on twenty years now, and that if he signed my copy of his album, I'd be honored seeing as how I've owned it for at least sixteen years. He was eager to do so, and I walked out not only pleasantly surprised and satisfied, but with a significant amount to think about in wake of his disturbing, revelatory film.

Absolutely not for everyone, "What Is It?" still happens to serve an important role in the development of our counter culture. It expressly sets out to exercise those creative muscles the State would have atrophy for fear of exposing taboos generally thought to be better off never talked about. From this perspective I believe "What Is It?" to be a beautiful film, unlike any ever made before. And listening to Crispin defend his art helped me to answer the question posited by the work's title: the answer being simply, REALITY. Because it is the core of reality's often disturbing truths that are most often condemned by the state, and that is explicitly what this movie is all about, facing reality before our collective corporate-sponsored rules & regulations gradually force us to evolve into purely fantasy-based creatures.

We all owe a debt to Crispin Glover for making this film, especially those of us who aspire to express ourselves artistically in a commercial medium.

Thanks, Mr. Farr.

APOCALYPTO

To view the trailer, click the pic^

AFLOPALYPTO:
A Review Chock-Full Of Rancid Spoilerz

And so it was that midway between the portentous events of 911 and the impending, legendary date of the prophecied Maya apocalypse, that one man in a bad ZZ-Top beard would be sent into the jungles of South America to lend his modern vision to the indigenous people of that land, promising them the opportunity of a lifetime to be exploited for the lining of his pockets, in the name of sleaze film-making in order that their personal integrity be ritually sacrificed at the altars of the modern cineplex.

So bodes the dawning of a movie that does nothing to advance our mutual understanding of an historical people, but rather, compounds and furthers age-old negative stereotypes of the sort the rest of the human race dreams of shedding itself of completely. As a lowly acolyte at the height of our own decadent empire, allow me this evisceration of the filmmaker known as "Mel Gibson," so that I may hold his raw, beating heart aloft in my fist for all to clearly examine its outline.

Apocalypto is incredibly generic film-making. In the movie Braveheart, with its themes of ancestral heroism most red-blooded male Caucasians can at least pretend to relate to, Gibson somehow managed to spoon feed us what we wanted (while keeping the wool over our eyes). He knew all the right buttons to push to keep us satisfied (speaking on behalf of my red-blooded American male contingency, at least). Lord knows how bad that movie must really have been, looking in hindsight.

In tackling a more distinctly foreign civilization -- that of the ancient Maya at the tail-end of their grandeur -- it seems Mel Gibson has unwittingly bitten off way more than he is capable of chewing, and in so doing has revealed to the few astute audience members he has left, that as an artist working behind the camera, his vision is not only getting limited, but indeed, almost bankrupt of nuance and originality.

I hate to have to say it (because I always liked Mel Gibson the actor), but Apocalypto ends up being precisely what I went to the theater hoping to avoid. I went in yearning for a startling and convincing depiction of what Maya civilization may actually have looked like. I went in hoping to be led by his lens into a detailed landscape offering up what it might really have been like to wander goggle-eyed through a thriving Maya city. Instead, I got your typical, postcard depiction of tyrannical sacrifice we've all read or heard about since the days Merrie Melodies brought us face to face with the traditional, stylized cartoons of big-lipped cannibals and head hunter pygmies.

If that weren't reason enough to avoid this spectacle of cliches, how about a story line so simplistic, it's as if it were filmed with six crew members outside a cheap shantytown off Rio de Janeiro -- in between trips to the local bar & brothel -- to shoot what is effectively no more than an anachronistic episode of COPS?

Many are the moments when the diligent audience member is jarred from their pseudo reverie by crass camera work that suddenly has the feel of having been shot with a video cam, producing the disastrous effect of revealing the characters for what they really are: bad actors in shoddy costumes.
*Rancid Spoilers to follow!*
With the entire first half of the movie consisting of a painstaking set-up to have our protagonist captured for the stereotypical ritual sacrifice scene, (upon which the one opportunity for real excitement is squandered entirely when the mechanism for his escape is not of his own volition, but rather, the bloated and preposterously foreshadowed "solar eclipse" which occurs precisely before his turn to be sacrificed), and then the last half of this dead-in-the-dirt enterprise in paint-by-numbers formulaics focuses on his interminable running escape from his captors; by the time this slick, glossy, soulless monstrosity of quasi-propaganda is over, every sensitive, discerning viewer in the audience will have wished ten times over they were ritually sacrificed if only it could have spared them the sight of this backwoods blockbuster and its predictable viewpoint of the Maya people.

Give it up, Mel. You've given up the ghost already. Here's the naked heart of your movie exposed for all to see, and it ain't pretty. I know you're a swell family guy and all, and you're a great movie star but please, for the sake of forestalling the decline of our own corrupt civilization, stop directing movies. Let someone more qualified work behind the camera. Thanks.

Unleashed

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This movie is not what you think it is. With a beautiful musical score composed by Massive Attack, I dare you to take this exit ramp off your normal movie-going course (if martial arts flicks aren't your thing), and check out this dazzling and surprisingly touching story about a trained killer (played w/lethal sharpness by Jet Li) who is kept like a dog on a collar by a ruthless mobster (played w/brutal finesse by Bob Hoskins).

I'm not even going to tell you the premise because hearing it removed from the context of the film somehow cheapens the otherwise startling effectiveness of seeing it played out before your eyes on the screen. All the performances are tightly executed, and there is never a moment of cheese to be had in this powerful story of personal redemption. The fact Morgan Freeman not only stars in it, but turns in yet another unforgettable performance, should be reason enough to get anyone's curiosity spiked.

I can only highly recommend that you go out of your way to see it, as I have. It is a movie that will never fail to literally bring the tears flowing from my eyes, its effect being that profound on the attentive viewer.

Certainly a cut above your standard martial-arts action movie, the screenplay by Luc Besson is brought perfectly to celluloid light by a tight ensemble cast, and the fact the storyline goes somewhere unexpected lends class and depth to what otherwise may have been thought of as just another kungfu flick. Not so, not by a long & harrowing shot.

UNLEASHED is simply one of the top Best movies of 2005, and I am proud to say I own the Uncut version on DVD.

Blood Diamond

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Brutal Realism

I rented BLOOD DIAMOND last night. Damn. I'll be honest. You know, I really liked The Departed, and I'm glad Martin Scorcese won an Oscar he has been overdue for. But I'll be damned if BLOOD DIAMOND wasn't at least ten times more intense than the aforementioned statuette-winner. Leonardo DiCaprio did a better acting job as Danny Archer than he did in the Departed, in my opinion. And Djimon Hounsou: WOW. I have never experienced a more intense acting performance than what he turned in for this movie, as Solomon Vandy. I thought Mark Walhberg was excellent in The Departed, but there wasn't a single performance in that movie, or any other in 2006 that I can think of, which was half as passionate and convincing as Djimon Hounsou playing Solomon Vandy. It is a spectacular and heartbreaking tour de force.

Some might feel compelled to point out that "explosive, over the top emoting" doesn't necessarily count for better acting; that a more reserved and subtle performance could be seen to equally count, if not more so, as the superior acting accomplishment. Although that is a good point, and obviously has merit--I still must insist that Djimon's performance was exceptional. I don't think I've ever witnessed more primal, searing emoting than that. In fact, the actor is taking a huge chance in that his performance may be regarded as overdone, but Djimon burns away all doubts in the conviction of his role as the shattered father hoping to reunite his family, who have been broken apart by the RUF (Revolutionary United Front), a group of brutal rebels led by this one evil warlord named Captain Poison.

The way this movie smoothly segues from one hazardous, chaotic scene to the next, is simply brilliant filmmaking. I had no idea who Edward Zwick was (the director), and just now looked him up and found he directed The Last Samurai, which I also liked but was nowhere near as effective as BLOOD DIAMOND. This is a director who I believe is just working himself up to win the Oscar someday.

Solomon's son Dia is captured by the RUF and turned into a child soldier. This subplot, about the capture and subsequent brainwashing of children into the rebel guerilla forces of the illegal diamond trade, is one of the most heart-wrenching and brutally realistic sequences you're ever likely to see captured on film. The movie never once manages to look contrived, it just plunges you right into the erupting war zones of the conflict diamond trade. Given the sheer scope and complexity of its unrelenting storyline, I honestly think Edward Zwick may have deserved the Oscar over Martin Scorcese, although I have to admit, Scorsese knows how to handle background music interpolated seamlessly into the narrative, whereas Zwick did fall prey a few times to oversentimentalized, manipulative music, but only scarcely, so as not to bother me at all, really, given the harrowing realism of the movie's premise. Jennifer Connelly puts in a great supporting role as the American reporter in Africa trying to get the evidence she needs to expose the conflict diamond trade.

The most startling thing about this movie is its controversial nature. Halfway through and one begins to realize why the Oscars couldn't touch this movie with a ten foot pole, and that in itself is a kind of tragedy in its own right. I really think the movie should have won the Oscar for Best Picture not only because it is brilliantly edited and directed, has sterling performances by DiCaprio, Hounsou, and Connelly, but perhaps most importantly, for its topical message representing an unjust divide between the comfortable rich "adults" of the First World and the enslaved and butchered "children" of the impoverished Third World.

In short, quite possibly the most intense movie I have ever seen. I wish to hell I had seen BLOOD DIAMOND in the theaters, now. By the end of it I was wiping away a few tears from its overwhelming emotional weight. On a five star rating system I give BLOOD DIAMOND the full five stars.

The Motorcycle Diaries

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I saw THE MOTORCYCLE DIARIES finally. This is a terrific road movie, I'd go so far as to say it is sublime. One gets the impression the moviemakers really strove for accuracy - in depicting the memoirs of Ernesto Guevara as well as the record left behind by his road buddy Alberto Granado.

The choice to adapt this awesome road trip during the soon-to-be revolutionary's budding youth is excellent. I feel that the resulting spell over the viewer ends up being more powerful than if they had chosen to film Che's revolutionary days.

The way every little episode shows Guevara's honesty and directness is thoroughly revealing; not to mention his occasional happenstance meetings with various homeless migrant workers, all experiences which open his eyes bit by bit to the injustices seperating the poor from the rich, the sick from the healthy.

Gael Garcia Bernal's performance as the thoughtful young Ernesto is not so much "riveting" as it is merely direct and, well, thoughtful. The viewer can infer that in studying for this role, Gael decided to imbue the young Guevara with not so much a "fire" to reflect any future revolutionary status, but rather -- he decided to portray Ernesto's fundamental humanity via his honesty; something I felt managed to work miracles towards sculpting the personality behind such a legendary counter cultural hero. To have approached the portrayal of such an icon as Che in any other manner would have most certainly been counter productive in contrast to what Gael delivers onscreen: the simple, straightforward behaviour of not an idealistic young man, but rather a straightforwardly honest one.

As such, THE MOTORCYLCE DIARIES packs a more emotional whallop insofar as getting the audience thinking about what truly drives the revolutionary mindset. It is an important film that provides a window into the formative experiences that would later beget a legendary force for revolution. As such, it is mandatory viewing for anyone who gives a good god damn about such matters.

I should make it clear that one of the film's many strong points is that it offers audiences who could care less about Che Guevara plenty to enjoy. It is essentially a humanistic film with excellent performances and an easygoing stride -- which in my mind makes it a sure shot for all viewers (not just those interested in Che Guevara). What I'm trying to say is, the viewer who has never even heard of Ernesto "Che" Guevara would still walk away with a smile haunting their face.

I really think this is must see movie making, for all audiences, right here.

OLDBOY

Part I

I finally went and saw OLDBOY. Lordy. I have to say, reviewers may have a point about the relevance (or lack thereof) of such sadomasochistic tendencies as revealed through this disturbingly engaging vengeful ride through the underbelly of Korea. Herein we get to see not merely a story of one innocent man who has been imprisoned for 15 years in a private room while he gets to witness news reports of his wife being murdered and himself getting slowly framed for it and then one day is suddenly released with a new set of clothes and enough money so that he may take out his revenge upon his torturous captor; but we slowly learn of the captor's own vengeance he is executing due to some excruciating twist of consciousness borne of having had an incestual affair with his sister . . . to tell you the truth, the exact reasoning behind this sadistic overseer of Oldboy's mindboggling degree of torture was somewhat lost on me -- I'm struggling to recall exactly what the reason Oldboy was culpable in the eyes of his torturer. I was trying to discern if the Oldboy wasn't even really guilty of anything, and it was all some twisted self-justification in the eyes of his nemesis, or what. I sympathize with the aggravation with movies nowadays that seem to be trying to outdo one another in terms of the old ultraviolence. Oldboy seems to have succeeded on at least several levels. Woe to the audience member who may have overlooked a crucial detail here or there in the explicit unfolding of these sadistic events, for I would expect them to be hard pressed to have to sit through it all again in order to ascertain what those exact details were precisely -- not a ride I feel I want to embark on again, necessarily. Although I can't say the film was entirely without thoughtful justifications for its raison d'etre; clever, certainly -- only the depth to which its depravity sinks makes the audience consider whether there is enough justification to warrant the plot material and unfolding of events depicted. Most certainly this is a movie not for the squeamish -- Oldboy seems, on the surface, to be a postmodern exercise for the hopelessly bored dilettante who would otherwise pass their time yawningly pulling the wings off flies. People have criticized SIN CITY as being a story with a "moral vacuum" -- these people would fare better directing such criticism to Oldboy than they would toward SIN CITY, which I thought was quite obviously and intentionally a "morality tale" with a very strong moral center. Oldboy on the other hand really does seem like a vacuous exercise in extremist morality-stripping to reveal at its heart a literal absence of any morality whatsoever in the center of any of its characters. In that respect I feel it may be considered a more thoughtful work of art than its audience may be capable of enduring sufficiently by film's end in order to appreciate it. Oldboy brings new dimensions to the difficult film and compounds this by seeming hellbent on contriving a situation so bleak and devoid of morality in every conceivable way that it probably succeeds in breaking through such old stereotypical movie-posturings in order to explore brand new territories in the realm of inhumane motivation; I say "compounds" this because after it is through making its depraved point, I don't know how many audience members' sense of normal morality would have sustained it through to the end. This is where the film sort of works against itself. It is almost an open invitation to sadomasochists everywhere, which puts the audience in a most uncomfortable spot, to say the least.

In the final analysis -- I cannot discredit the maker of Oldboy; rather, to the contrary. It is powerful filmmaking taken to a new level -- something that deserves credit in and of itself -- as well as an exploration of immorality taken to new depths. Having said that, what it reveals about both the filmmaker as well as the audience reactions must perforce be of extreme interest to psychology in general -- it just may not fare all that rewardingly insofar as a day at the movies goes. Oldboy is a powerful and disturbing work of art -- so successful in that endeavor in fact that it leaves the most jaded audience member with a bad taste in their mouth afterwards. Know of many other movies that can say that?


~Intermission~

I haven't been able to stop thinking about OLDBOY since I saw it Sunday.

It is filmmaking on a level so much more powerful than what is being delivered to us stateside, words fail...

...and yes, I have decided that I am going to have to sit through it again.

First I need to regain my composure.

Part II

The movie OLDBOY has been lingering like phosphorous impressions on the eyelids of my mind. Truly -- seldom have I seen a movie that so decidedly divides its audience into haters or appreciators. I believe it's because the movie works on the principle of an aesthetic. And that aesthetic seems to be the contrast between certain extremes of perception: UGLYness Vs. Beauty \ HATE vs Love \ Comedy vs Tragedy \ etc.

The way the filmmaker subtly injects the contrast of these elements thoroughly throughout is not something to be picked up on immediately, while viewing. For instance, the actor who played the main character: his face is a veritable canvas of seething emotion captured underneath -- emotion caught in the crossfire of pain, ugliness, desperation, and hatred. The little hope he experiences is devoured alive, just as the octopus he shoves ravenously down his throat. This is a classic scene easily misconstrued as pointless by western audiences who may not have considered that eating live seafood is common as a delicacy in the east. Yet it goes deeper than that -- I saw it as symbolizing his innate need to feel life itself as intimately as possible, after his 15 years of captivity. Aside from that, it wasn't any huge deal, that scene. Aesthetically it may have grossed many audience members out -- whereas I consider it to reflect a sort of repugnant beauty, a raw sensuality if you will, that works on many levels aesthetically. Regardless, I believe it is a classic cinematic moment destined to be long remembered, not just because of its novelty, but rather, because it is simply a powerful sequence of cinema.

As for the remainder of the film's relentless exegesis into the nature of vengeance itself, my main consideration about it is that this movie, like Sin City, is Not For Everyone.

But for those who would at least try and dissect further into its inner workings -- to go beyond the surface details of what might appear to be a rather flimsy setup for one man's revenge being swallowed up inside another's even greater revenge -- I think this film offers some true rewards.

The pitted skin of the protagonist's face and his wild, hoary hair conjure up tragic heroes such as King Lear or Macbeth, though you wouldn't necessarily realize that while watching the film. The Oedipal touches remain to give it that additional sense of Greek tragedy. The colours utilized to shoot the various scenes work very well -- and subtly -- towards establishing the film's relentless and edgy mood.

The scene where our hero hammers his way through a gang of a couple dozen guys was realized nicely as a single shot, and we get to see him continue unphased even after receiving a knife in the back. I know of many reviews that obviously completely missed the simple point of this scene -- many balk at the alleged unrealism of his having survived the knife wound, well that's where I balk at them -- he was merely driven so by rage that the knife in the back meant nothing. "Just a flesh wound", as they say. Oldboy is all about human endurance as well as how far humans are willing to go towards plumbing the depths of vengeance.

And the clincher -- I don't want to give it away for anyone so I'll make this as spoiler-free as I can -- the secret we learn of -- which is the motivation for our hero's captor to execute such a dizzying and cruel degree of vengeance -- let me just say that I realize many people were disappointed -- some shockingly so -- was the apparant triviality of that revelation. Well allow me to point out that I personally thought this was one of the most powerful aspects of the film -- that human beings can be driven to commit the most dire atrocities to one another -- all in the name of the most superficial, trivial things imagineable. So I had zero problem with that; I merely took it as yet another notch on the tightening screws of nihilism this film has set out to expose.

Although Oldboy may be thought of as "claptrap" and a "vacuous exercise in faux-Tarantinoism" by some reviewers, that doesn't change the fact that in my eyes, this film was a serious attempt by all involved to deliver the definitive revenge flick -- successfully, I might add -- which yes, is buying into a genre and perforce lends it more distinction as just another "movie" meant to entertain (rather than some self-important "film"), but I see that as yet another dimension of its intent to present the aesthetic of contrasts.

The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou

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I finally went and saw the one movie I was looking forward to so much, I was going to see it on Xmas day for crying out loud, now it's at the dollar theater, and am I ever glad I finally got off my duff and went.

THE LIFE AQUATIC WITH STEVE ZISSOU is now one of my top favorite movies ever. If someone were to ask me, "If they made a movie about your life, what would it be like?", I'd have to say, "Well, they already done did: it's THE LIFE AQUATIC WITH STEVE ZISSOU!" yeah, hearing all my old favorite Bowie tunes sung in pidgin portugese, man that was just the icing on the cake . . . Bill Murray's role was just picture perfect . . . all the actors fit just right into his twisted little jigsaw world . . . the locales . . .the setting of his property . . . (see, I used to belong to the Cousteau Society . . . I once built a model of the Calypso . . . so the beauty of this homage to the late great Jacque Costeau himself was not lost on me) . . . I thought everyone did a stand out job . . . . what's-his-face . . .ol' crooked-nose . . . (Owen Wilson!) . . . I've always liked him in movies, but in this role, he was just perfect. The movie was filmed with just the right degree of charm and carefree irreverence . . . I really think of it as a sort of masterpiece . . . every camera shot had a reason behind it . . . I love the way Wes Anderson has a way with shooting scenes which somehow, when they're translated up on the big screen, have the capacity to show things how they really are . . . loved the tropical settings and houses . . . (I've lived in Central America) . . . it's just like that . . . there is such a degree of realism in this movie, I'm not sure much of American audiences appreciated it . . . and the Henry Selick (Nightmare Before Christmas) stop-motion Sea Horses and curious tropical fish they would spot every now and again . . . loved that . . . To me, those little spots of brightly-coloured "fake" sea life were there for good reason . . . they were there to high light the fact that Zissou's crew, due to their curious natures as explorers, would often be privvy to spotting curious critters in the underwater wilds . . . critters that normal, everyday people probably wouldn't notice even if they swam right by them . . . and of course, the unusual shark Zissou had spotted eating his old friend, that was the ultimate symbol of Zissou's unerring vision of discovering any new secrets the sea had to offer . . . most definitely my favorite Wes Anderson film, that much ain't difficult to discern at all . . . I like his previous two flicks, especially the second one . . . but THE LIFE AQUATIC takes the cake, if I may say so myself. That was one well-spent dollar.

AVP

Awful Visual Punishment

For the time beiing one of my favorite personal in-joke catchphrases continues to be "My Little Predator Buddy!" That phrase about sums up my feelings about this, ahem, eagerly anticipated...er, sequel, of sorts. Make no mistake about it: this reviewer exemplifies that old school devotee of not only loving pretty much all four installments in the Alien series, but could give the thumb's up to both Predator flicks, as well. Oh yeah, homey here's been there, done that. That is why homey wants more, and that is why homey is writing this review, to make sure all of you hear loud and clear that this new monstrosity ain't the same one we learned to fear. Back in the day, there was this unwritten standard that can be reflected to varying degrees in the Alien movie series, and perhaps most prevalent in the first two installments, of a concept that could be referred to as the Believability Index. I feel that this standard, utilized to different magnifications by both Ridley Scott and James Cameron respectively, is what kept audiences glued to their seats on the verge of holding their breaths merely awaiting the next scare or thrill. Back when we first learned of the extraterrestrial being, we were transfixed with a certain horrified curiosity as to the strange reality of its existence: the way in which it molted through various stages of development, and thrived off a blood type which to us humans was a kind of molecular acid. There was a fascination with the reality of such an alien Ichneumon dwelling out there in the cold depths of space...

...welcome to the future, the real future, of the year two thousand and four. The 21st century has dawned with the war on terror being smugly conducted in ways a tad too analogous with certain Orwellian prophecies, and the power vested in these United States Of America has watered down most commercial fare to the point where not even the eagerly-anticipated Aliens versus Predator movie has been able to survive the fallout. To be honest, I should've seen it coming (like a loyal contingency out there already did); but, I wanted to give it that chance, and I'm afraid instead I was baited and suckered into paying, on opening night, full price for a real stinker. Yes there was an element of ritual sacrifice to the proceedings, only the twist on this one was not of the usual pleasant variety.

The Alien Series = AOK ; AVP = Asinine Vapid Putrescense.

When you find yourself laughing so hard for so long that the tears are literally burning your eyes to the point which you can no longer tell what is happening up on the screen, and it's not supposed to be a comedy mind you, that's when you know this should have nothing whatsoever to do with any Alien or Predator movies in and of themselves.

"You know what 'AVP' stands for don'tcha", my friend had warned me the night before I went out to become ritually subjected to being tortured in a darkened chamber, "Artists Vs. Producers". I told him I expected as much, but I was at least prepared to give the thing a chance. Little did I know what lied in wait for me deep below the surface of our icy conversation that evening. It was an awful visual punishment indeed, for what I thought would have been at least the film's one redeeming aspect being the inclusion of Lance Henrickson (of course), the strange and unsettling truth turns out to be his character in AVP is just an over-weary and asthmatic elderly statesman bent on being credited with an esteemed archaelogical discovery, and in no fashion does the film elicit any sort of inspiration out of his performance. It's not enough that he represented ownership of a corporation that would later come to represent his image in an exclusive line of their androids; in this one he's just meat there for the ruthlessly bred alien warrior drones (read: Executive Producers, and so forth) to take a slavering chomp out of. If you go and see this movie for whatever desperately justifiable reasons you might wanna conjure up, don't forget I warned you, that should you start feeling like the crew of humans in the film itself who find themselves repelling down a two-thousand-foot tunnel bored through solid ice by inexplicably advanced technology to the buried ancient pyramid below, might you be asking yourself a tad too late if this was a good idea after all?

The mistake Aliens Vs Predator makes is assuming modern audiences are all daft, or at the very least, assuming we simply don't care about realism anymore. Regardless of how outlandish a science fictional premise may happen to be, it is one of the principal jobs of the discriminating director to somehow present that outlandish concept to the audience in a manner in which they can accept as being believable. This is the core, and I'd even dare to say the unspoken truth about a solidly-executed piece of science fiction cinema. Can you imagine, even for an instant, what a director like Stanley Kubrick would have done with the Alien premise (given that he would accept such an honour)-? Only imagine to yourself the original H.R.Giger conception of what the alien more or less truly appears to be (a psycho-sexual hermaphrodite anthropomorfication), and our imaginations alone might conjure up a darkly suggestive shadow of what someone like Kubrick could manage to achieve in pushing the envelope of groundbreaking cine-noir horror given this material.

As for AVP, if the flimsy premise upon which this artless exercise in guaranteed demographic box-office baiting is to be taken to heart, then you might consider doing the same in taking my word for it: this film in no way deserves to be a part of the Alien or Predator universes and/or continuums; rather, it depicts what a brute tribe would do given their best approximate knowledge of the alien, in a self-serving ritual designed to accrue a guaranteed percentage of revenue, which is to say, feed off a major financial artery in one fell, unforgiving swoop (read: opening weekend). And you know what they say about a bite like that. You wouldn't want to find yourself having gradually transformed among the living dead collectively feeding their newfound Master, now would you? Because if the box-office success of AVP is enough to warrant a sequel to it along a similar trend and vector...then I'm afraid this ball was dropped when they lost Sigourney Weaver.

AVP: a disappointment for the hardcore ALIEN fanatics; yet another soporific for the multitudes.